


Stealing and Stitches

by BlackPencilKitten



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Depression, Gen, Healing, Loneliness, Medical Procedures, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackPencilKitten/pseuds/BlackPencilKitten
Summary: He doesn't know why he cares. Death is inevitable, and yet he carried the bleeding cat from the dumpster, took him home, and put his medic skills to use.He doesn't know why he fixes him, why he devotes days to making sure he healed correctly.Maybe it's because he's lonelyOr just a cat person. One of the two.





	Stealing and Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> 'BPK you haven't written in a month, why isn't this Persona 5-'  
> I've been trying to write, OK. Let me self indulge in old semi-original characters  
> Stein is a very different Junkenstein, and JunkKat's an OC.  
> (There is no sutures tag so that's why I'm tagging this as stitches before anyone corrects me)

Police sirens made themselves known in the midst of the rain, the cheers of alcoholics from the scattered bars mixed with the shattering of glass joining the thoughtless symphony. Shouts and barks shoved their way into the mess, followed by the small taps of metal on the cobblestone roads. The clouds overhead shrouded the place in darkness, though that was interrupted by streetlights and dim signs showing off the names of the associated bar. The street was relatively free of cars this time of night, few wanted to risk crashing into an apartment due to the rain.

That or the drunken idiots had a lick of common sense.

His lab-coat was utterly drenched, sticking to his skinny frame like gum to the underside of a table. Tights were not the best choice of clothing for any weather, but it's not like he had any other clothes. He shook his gloved hand vigorously to rid it of some water, his metal one hanging idly by his side. Eyes glued to the ground, he blocked out the world around him, mindlessly wandering the streets.

He passed by the entrance to an alleyway, before stopping and backtracking. A trail of pink liquid stood out from the rain, its original hue washed away. He instinctively headed into the alley, following the faint trail to a dumpster, where the liquid became dark red. Who cares about a dumpster, it was probably someone's hamburger remains and the ketchup dripped out.

However, everyone knows how unlikely that was when it's nighttime in King's Row.

His curiosity got the better of him, and he peered inside the dumpster, only to find-

A wounded cat

A long cut ran diagonally from the end of the cat's chest to halfway down its stomach. Some fur around it was missing, replaced with bloodstained skin. For a few moments, he presumed the animal dead, until he took a closer look and saw its labored breathing. Still alive, which means it still had a chance of being saved.

Was it really worth saving, though?

Death and life are part of a cycle, there's no use denying one or the other. He should just let nature take its course and let the poor thing die.

He should not break into someone's apartment to rip apart their drapes.

He should not wrap the cat's wound in said drapes.

He should not bring it to his own small apartment for treatment-

....

Well fuck.

Quickly but gently, he sets the cat on his kitchen table, leaving momentarily only to return with a first aid kit.

He wasn't exactly a veterinarian, but he's had a few years of medical training, there can't be much difference when dealing with things like this. Humans and animals get the same wounds, both bleed red, no biggie.

Kids and people in general, do not try this at home. Always leave it to the professionals, aka Not This Guy.

He pulls the drapes off the cat and tosses them aside, searching his kitchen for a clean cloth. Once it was retrieved, he kept it pressed against the wound for about seven minutes, checking periodically to see if the blood had stopped. The cat's tail flicked, but it didn't have any further reactions. When the blood had stopped, he left the cloth where it was and started making an antiseptic solution to clean the wound.

By that he meant throwing open the door to the supply closet and shoving aside random bottles of liquids and pills before he came across a bottle of Betadine.

He had no idea how old this thing was but it should work the same, right?

Returning to the cat and grabbing the syringe from the first-aid kit, he let it take in some of the Betadine before carefully applying it to the wound. The skin around it turned golden-brown, and if he remembered correctly, that was a good thing. The cat didn't show any sign of pain-then again, they hardly do-but he assumed it was OK. The antiseptic, before it got absorbed, also made a few tiny pieces of debris come into view.

Grabbing his tweezers after tossing the dirtied cloth in the sink because it was absolutely disgusting, he got to work yet again.

 

After at least a half hour and reapplying the Betadine, he realized the wound would definitely need sutures. Which he did not have because those do not come in standard first-aid kits. Hell, they're so damn important they have their OWN overpriced kits.

"Don't fucking move, fluffball."

The speed at which he tore out of the apartment was astounding and also highly dangerous. Running through London on cobblestone, in the rain, with a metal prosthetic leg were the three things needed for Instant Death, except he couldn't care less. This damn, injured, ~~adorable~~ stupid cat needed help and he was going to give it to him.

Free of charge.

One masterfully stolen suture kit later, and he was back at his apartment, the cat still in its spot on the table. After quickly checking over the wound to make sure it had not started bleeding again, which it had not, he opened up the suture kit. The items inside were familiar, and picking up the round-bladed-thing, everything clicked.

No not the name of the tools, just how to use them.

With the fan blowing because he hated silence, he prepared himself for an hour or more of wound-closing.

 

That did not take an hour.

What the hell.

With the final suture cut and tied off, he took a step back, not to admire his work, but judge it.

The cat shouldn't die, that's for sure, and his work looked neat enough.

As neat as it can get with a prosthetic, slightly bigger hand and a normal one.

The cat's breathing was steadier, though he couldn't tell by how much. Its fur had dried some, still a bit damp. It hadn't moved much, if at all, during his procedures. There wasn't any hisses of protest, no meows of pain. Just, silent, excluding a few instances of low, almost inaudible purring.

It was a bit too calm, in his opinion. Maybe it was plotting to kill him; the quiet ones are the most deadly, after all.

He carefully lifted the cat up and carried it to his couch, setting it down on a seat to relax. With that, he took the seat farthest from it, which was only a seat away considering he had a typical three-seat couch. Pulling out his phone and dimming the brightness, he did some research over it, looking up potential breeds and post-procedural care. He...he didn't want the cat to be in pain.

All this aside, he still didn't like it. He should have let Death taken it.

It wasn't like he was going to rob a pet store for food, a litter-box, and a cat bed.

It wasn't like he was already thinking of potential pet names.

It wasn't like he already considered the cat-a gray Turkish Angora, according to Google-his pet.

It wasn't like that at all.

Not in the slightest.

 

After a measly three hours of sleep, assuming he actually did, he spent the morning trying to make his apartment as cat-friendly as possible. While also lowkey wondering why he wasn't lying in bed all day like he usually did.

He picked up trash, food bits, and random metal scraps from the floor, sorting them into respective piles.

The kitchen and bathroom were mopped, counters wiped down and cabinets organized.

The TV wires were pushed out of the way, in case the cat was a chewer.

He didn't shower or vacuum in case he woke the cat up.

Food and water were poured and set beside the couch, while the cat bed was across the room near a cushioned wicker chair, to offer some privacy while being easy to access.

The litter-box took a while to place: he didn't want to accidentally lock the cat in a room, but he didn't want to place it somewhere too open so he didn't step in cat shit. He settled for his bathroom. Google said not to use the bathroom, but he always left the door open, and some cats didn't mind it being there, so **maybe** the cat would like it.

When he returned to his living room, the cat wasn't on the couch.

A frantic, half-assed search of the apartment proved useless as he failed to find it, and he stood in the middle of the room, hands clenched into fists.

It probably left, it has freedom, it can do what it wants.

Except it had barely begun the process of recovery, it could get hurt out there. King's Row wasn't exactly a friendly place, not for humans, omnics, or animals.

"JunkKat..." Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, and he wiped them away quickly, trying to take deep breaths to calm down.

It's not like all his hard work had been thrown out the window.

It's not like he cared about that dumb cat.

Dumb, cute, poor cat that he hoped was okay.

He felt something bump his leg, and he almost jumped, looking down only to see a familiar coat of light-grey fur.

"JunkKat!" It doesn't register that he's picked the cat up, unintentionally named it, and nuzzled it until he feels the fur against his face, and he pulls away shortly after with a sniffle.

"Sorry, uh..." The cat didn't let him finish as it nuzzled his face back, letting out a meow when tears clung to its face.

"No, I'm not cryin, 'm sweatin through my eyes." Why was he lying to a cat? He didn't know, nor did he care as he sat down on the floor, expecting the cat to get off him. It didn't, instead curling up in his lap with a purr.

He was going to say that it shouldn't be moving in case his wound reopened or the sutures stretched, but he didn't have the words. He carefully petted it with his prosthetic hand, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The fur sends a tingling sensation through his arm, but he doesn't mind in the slightest.

"When ya get up, not sayin you can't leave, cause ya can if ya want, but...I'd kinda like it if ya stayed for a bit. Just till ya recover and all."

 

The next day the cat had already started eating and drinking, though it moved around slowly, aware of its sutured injury. It didn't eat much, but he didn't think much about it. The cat was probably just worried that it would cough everything back up later, a reasonable worry. The entire day, it relaxed, moving around when it needed to but generally staying on its part of the couch.

He could swear that the cat actually watched the television with him.

 

He woke up in his bed the second day, with the cat curled up by his face. The urge to push it away arose, but he ignored it in favor of checking on the wound. It hadn't opened up at all, but it could use another layer of Betadine and some antibiotic ointment around the edges. He'd have to do that when it woke up, with its permission of course.

That day was one of his 'can't get out of bed days', which turned into a 'can't leave the couch day' since he didn't have a TV in his bedroom. The cat also decided to rest on his chest, which was one reason he couldn't leave the couch. The other was lack of any motivation.

 

The third and fourth days came and went quickly, the food and water bowls being refilled and the cat litter cleaned out during that time. The cat had meowed nonstop as it sat by its food bowl, and it took around an hour of figuring out what it wanted before it starting eating. Turns out it just wanted him to eat as well. Pepperoni and crackers definitely weren't the best things to eat for an entire day, but at least he ate for once.

Surprisingly, the cat never scratched or licked at its wound, making it much easier for him to put on the antibiotic ointment each day.

 

By the fifth day, the cat had started walking a bit faster, becoming more active and eating more as well. It tricked him into playing a game of Hide and Go Seek through the use of 'pained' meows that grabbed his attention.

The little adorable lying shit.

He was able to get permission from the cat to determine its sex, which turned out to be male. He wasn't going to do the Heteronormative Thing and make all the cat's possessions blue, that was utterly ridiculous. Though he definitely needs to get the cat neutered, he didn't have the time for potential kittens.

They were cute though.

 

Technically, he could take out the sutures upon the arrival of the seventh day, but he wanted to make sure the cat had fully healed by then. He had started calling him 'JunkKat' more often, the name just had a nice ring to it, along with a touch of familiarity. He had gone out to buy him some toys so JunkKat didn't get bored and get depression.

He didn't want anyone, human, animal, or omnic, to turn out like himself.

JunkKat had a fondness for fishing pole toys and hanging things in general. He had to hide the curtain tassels before he could potentially pull them down through the power of Cat Claws. Though that would be funny to watch, unless he got hurt. He didn't want to imagine JunkKat getting hurt again.

 

Day nine came around and he stopped putting the ointment and Betadine on JunkKat's wound per suggestion of the Internet. He had started calling JunkKat just 'Kat' for simplicity's sake...and also because he kept forgetting his name and 'Kat' and 'Cat' were not different besides a letter change.

Speaking of Kat, he had made him:

Open the curtains

Eat a 'full' meal, which was at least more than a few slices pepperoni and cheese.

Do his laundry, though it was kinda awkward sneaking around the apartment complex to the washing machine and dryer with only a towel around his waist. He really needed more clothes, he had the money, just not the motivation.

Attempt to shower, which completely failed, but he did brush his teeth and comb his hair. That was painful, so he simply washed his hair and forwent washing his body.

Sit outside on his balcony for a few minutes to breathe in 'fresh' hair. It's the city, how fresh can it get?

The usual cat-keeping things of changing the litter-box and refilling food.

And also made him lie through a session of 'I'm sitting on your chest and you will not move'. He didn't mind too much.

 

The tenth day finally arrived, and he could finally take out the sutures. In all honesty, he forgot that Kat had them, which made it an even bigger surprise when he **laid down on his table** waiting for their removal. Said removal took about half an hour of meticulous, slow work. It would've been faster if his prosthetic, and also dominate hand, wasn't bigger than his left.

Kat showed no signs of pain throughout the procedure, and let out a happy meow when it was over, moving to nuzzle his face with his own. With a laugh, he pet Kat for a few minutes, getting lost in the feeling of his fur between his fingers-

Until a few strands got caught in his prosthetic and he had to carefully get them out. He really needed a new arm, now that he thought about it.

 

Finally, two weeks passed, and on the fourteenth day, he could consider JunkKat fully healed.

That day he spent packing the cat items away, much to Kat's confusion.

"Meow?"

"You're fully healed now, bud. Ya can leave." He sat by the open door to his apartment, waiting for Kat to leave. Instead, he headbutted his arm with a worried mew.

"What're you...mate, ya can go now. I asked ya to stay till ya were better, and ya are." He tried to ignore the tears pricking the corners of his eyes, picking Kat up and setting him outside his room. He only jumped into his lap with another meow.

"Kat...." He set him outside again, before closing the door and sitting down again. "You can leave. Go enjoy life again, play outside and explore and shit."

Another insistent meow, and Kat forced his way onto his lap again, nuzzling his chest with a purr. A shaky hand moved to pet him, but he set it down, tears starting to fall.

"K-Kat, please, you d-don't deserve to live a sh-shut-in life like me." He hiccuped, wiping away tears with the sleeve of his coat. Kat let out a worried meow and stood up slightly to nuzzle his face. He wraps his arms around him, flesh one petting him slowly as he hiccuped. The cat....liked him, didn't want to leave. Maybe it was out of pity, or as a 'return favor', he...he couldn't actually want to stay with him. He was an absolute wreck, an yet...he had helped him. He had helped him sleep, helped him get up and actually do things, hell he had even just laid with him during his 'can't leave the bed/couch' days.

Kat cared about him.

He cared about him back.

He honestly couldn't imagine a life without Kat, and he hated thinking about him dying from an attack, from his wound reopening and him bleeding to death. He just...he couldn't.

They needed each other.

With a sob, he carried the cat back into his apartment, before sliding down against the back of the door, unable to move past it. He lets himself cry to his cat, no, to his friend, to his support animal. He cries, and Kat comforts him with meows, with nuzzles, with calming purrs that drown out the silence that tries to come around.

It takes at least ten minutes before he stops, wiping away his tears and attempting to do the same to the damp parts of Kat's fur, though it doesn't do much. In the end, they just sit together like that, Kat in his arms and himself nuzzling him.

He knows that they can't sit like forever, so he stands up and manages to move them to his couch, sitting in the seat between his and Kat's spot now. After a few more minutes of comforting, he speaks.

"I-I just realized I never told ya m-my name, hehe. Not like ya would care, but...S-Stein. The name's Stein, and I'm glad to h-have ya, JunkKat."

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY FRICK THIS CAME ALONG SO EASILY  
> NO WONDER I WAS STUCK IN A WRITER'S BLOCK I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING SELF-INDULGENT, LIKE, EVER  
> WOAH


End file.
